04 05 2020
An old machine sits patiently in disrepair on the floor by the window. One of the wooden panels is ajar and the early morning light has bled through the gap and is now creeping up the side of the machine, like it does every day and has done for as long as the machine remembers. Where the light meets the shiny components of the machine it is warm and before too long it will be hot to the touch.

As routinely as the sun itself rising, the bird will soon appear, like it does everyday and has done for as long as the machine remembers. It will fly to the ledge of the window, keenly scan the room for any danger, before drifting down to the floor by the machine where it will stay collecting its warmth; its feathers nestled in their embrace. 
Back to Top